


Almost

by GnomeWithALaptop



Series: Almost verse [1]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e16 Failsafe, Episode: s02e20 Endgame, Gen, Groundhog Day AU, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Time Loop, except it's a time loop so not really, ish, no one actually wants to die, the birdflash kind of just happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 06:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16341206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GnomeWithALaptop/pseuds/GnomeWithALaptop
Summary: Except his fingers are two inches too low, and then he's not flying anymore. He's just falling. Down, down, down, faster and faster, like the pigeon Uncle Rick shot that one time in Germany. Falling, broken, dead before he hit the ground. Except that's not what happened. Dick knows that's not what happened. He's read the police reports, he knows his family fell and he survived.So why does he remember it both ways?





	Almost

And then the line snaps and his swing almost flings him back up to the platform. Almost.

It’s a horrible word. His hands _almost_ hit the splintered wooden edge. The tips of his fingers _almost_ stretch far enough.

_(Don’t worry, Dickie, it’s just like flying)_

He _almost_ grabs ahold.

_(See how Papa tucks his head when he flips?)_

He almost makes it. He’s so, _so_ close.

_(See how he grips the bar? Two hands, Dickie, not one)_

Except sometimes, almost just isn’t good enough.

Except his fingers are two inches too low, and then he’s not flying anymore. He’s just falling. Down, down, down, faster and faster, like the pigeon Uncle Rick shot that one time in Germany. Falling, broken, dead before it hit the ground.

He can see Uncle Rick now, out of the corner of his eye. Crumpled on the concrete floor, his face frozen, eyes blank.

_(Don’t worry, Dick, it didn’t feel a thing. I promise)_

And the cloth ceiling is shrinking away from him, and he can’t see his parents above him and he’s _falling_.

_(We’re Flying Graysons, little Robin. We don’t fall. We fly)_

He thinks he screams, but it’s a little hard to tell when the whole crowd is screaming too.

_(And if you do fall, we’ll be right there to catch you. You’ll be in the air again before you can say--)_

They aren’t.

There’s just the fall and the ground and the crunch of his own neck breaking.

Then there’s nothing at all.

 

Except that wasn’t how it happened. Dick’s read the newspaper, he knows his family fell. He knows his dad gripped his wrist last minute, swung him into the air above his head.

Knows he made it to the platform.

_(fingers grasping uselessly at nothing as he falls down, down, down)_

There was no _almost,_ no fall through the air, no slick metallic scent of blood on concrete.

_(Sweetheart, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Papa and I have performed without a net before; we’ll be okay)_

But at the same time, he remembers. Remembers the feeling of his cousin falling past him, wind whipping through his hair as the ground got closer and closer.

_(It was just a nightmare, Dickface, lay off already)_

He knew something was going to go wrong with the ropes.

So why couldn’t he stop it?

 

The long black car Mr. Wayne pulls up in smells distinctly of cologne and old leather, wafting out in waves as he opens the door. It makes Dick sneeze.

His accent is American, and his smile is crammed with bleached-white, perfectly straight teeth. He tries to clap a hand on Dick’s shoulder. A pose for the photographers.

Dick stands ramrod straight and doesn’t look up from the ground.

The flashbulbs go off, reporters clamoring, and Mr. Wayne’s grin broadens. It still doesn’t reach his eyes.

Apparently, he was in the audience the night Dick’s parents died.

_(And Karla and Rick and John, screaming, falling, spread-eagle on the ground)_

He’s taking Dick in as his ward. Wants to give him the chance of having a real family again.

Dick stares at the ground. Mr. Wayne’s eyes still aren’t smiling with the rest of his face.

 

Wayne’s house is big. _Scary_ big. The sort of big Dick used to reserve only for Zitka and major European cities.

Mr. Wayne doesn’t smile at all unless he’s talking to someone. And even then, his eyes never do.

 

The clock in the corner of the hall has a hinge in the side.

So of course, he does the sensible thing. He pulls.

 

“So,” Dick says. “You’re the Batman.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Really. I would’ve thought the giant cave filled with bats would’ve been a dead giveaway.”

 

They find Zucco. Bruce has to hold him back, tell him to be the bigger man. To do the right thing.

_(the snap of ropes that he knew was coming)_

Turn him in. Make him face justice for his crimes.

_(John celebrated his twelfth birthday two days before his skull was crushed into the asphalt floor)_

Dick screams right back at him. Calls him an unfeeling bastard. Among other things. Many, much worse, other things.

But his grip on his arms is iron, and he can already feel his mask sliding around on his face. Apparently, the glue they use is water soluble.

“Robin,” Bruce says quietly. “I’m going to let you go now. I just want you to think about if this is what they’d want.”

_(his mother screaming)_

“Would they really want their only son to become a murderer?”

 

Robin turns Zucco in.

 

Bruce still doesn’t smile.

But sometimes, he gets a little quirk in the corner of his mouth, a tiny softening around his eyes.

Dick doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t point it out. Just cracks jokes and punches baddies and watches as the Dark Knight’s edges get a little less pointy each time. It’s almost a smile _(it’s close enough)._

 

Meeting Wally is… an experience.

He’s yellow and orange and hyperactive lightning all rolled into one. He tells Dick his real name within two seconds of meeting him.

“Y’know,” Wally says thoughtfully through the mashed-up hamburger in his mouth. “I always thought you’d be taller.”

They’re sitting on top of a skyscraper in Central. Wally’s on the very edge, swinging his legs back and forth like a little kid in a high chair.

Robin folds his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wally swings his hands wide, gesturing with the rest of his half-eaten sandwich. “You’re Robin, you know? The _first._ You’re supposed to be all badass and experienced and stuff.”

A piece of lettuce hits Robin in the face and he flicks it away impatiently. “Who says I’m not?”

“Well for one, I’m pretty sure you’re younger than me. Kinda takes some of the mystique away, you know?”

Robin snorts. “Good thing I can still kick your butt then, huh.”

Wally sticks his tongue out and takes another supersonic bite of hamburger.

 

Two-Face gets him. Takes him to a dark room in the middle of the night, with Batman and the judge on the gallows in the corner. Bags over their heads, hands tied behind their backs. He’s pretty sure Bruce’s fingers are broken. A flip of the coin and he could save them both. Easy, right?

Robin sets his shoulders back, makes sure he looks Two-Face dead in the eye. “Clean face up, they don’t hang.”

It’s a fifty-fifty shot. That’s Dent’s thing.

Except for when it isn’t. The coin comes down clean, but Dent just laughs and pulls the lever anyway. Lets them fall down into the cold water Robin didn’t know was under them.

Tells him he should’ve been more specific.

Then he beats the shit out of him with a baseball bat.

Two blows to the head, and that’s it. Lights out Robin.

  
  


Except it isn’t. He wakes up, again.

_(Aunt Karla at the electric stove in the trailer, quickly putting out her cigarette when she saw him. Just like last time. “You want pancakes, Dick?”)_

“Alfred,” Dick says slowly, taking a seat at the table. There are eggs and biscuits again. Alfred’s Friday special. “What’s the date?”

_(Blinking. “Didn’t we have pancakes yesterday?”)_

“The twenty-seventh, Master Dick.”

“Right...” Dick says, staring at his eggs. There are no bruises along his sides, no broken arm. No lingering concussion. “I need to talk to Bruce.”

 

“I’m telling you, it’s the same day over again!”

Bruce sips his coffee, unmoved. “I’m not saying it isn’t.”

It’s not a question. But it’s close enough. _(Almost,_ the little voice whispers in his ear).

Dick swallows. Checks his posture _(can’t be sloppy, can we Dickie? Can’t be hunched over when you’re onstage)_ “I’m just saying… well, last time didn’t end with warm fuzzies and cocoa, you know?”

Bruce sets down his coffee. Gives Dick a long, hard look, then leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Where did you say Two-Face was again?”

 

They catch Dent. Well, Bruce catches him. Throws him at Gordon in the middle of the GCPD, zip-tied, bloody, and unconscious.

Dick was stuck on monitor duty.

Bruce pulls him aside as soon as he gets back to the cave. “You froze up,” he says quietly. “What happened.”

Dick makes a conscious effort not to curl in on himself. He meets Bruce’s eyes, gives him a little half shrug. Tries to be flippant. “I thought he had a baseball bat,” he says.

Behind the cowl, he thinks Bruce’s eyes widen. He kneels down beside him, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Dick,” he growls. “Did he have a baseball bat yesterday?”

Dick doesn’t say anything, just swallows and looks away.

 

Bruce makes modifications to his costume the next day. Gets rid of the shortie-shorts and pixie boots and replaces them with kevlar pants and a bulletproof cape.

Safer. Farther removed from the old Flying Grayson costumes.

_(Falling, falling, down, dead)_

Dick doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

 

One night, when he can’t sleep for fear of the nightmares, he crawls into Bruce’s bed.

“I think it was my fault,” he says. “I could’ve stopped it.” He blinks hard and pointedly traces the old embroidery in Bruce’s coverlet, not meeting his eyes.

“I knew the ropes were going to snap that night, and I didn’t say anything.” Ignores the tears dripping down the side of his nose. “I let it happen.”

Bruce pulls him into a hug. Doesn’t mention the tears.

Dick stifles his sniffles in his shoulder.

It’s enough.

 

The League is dead. Killed off by alien ships. Disintegration beams.

When Artemis gets hit _(like a dandelion in a hurricane)_ M’gann’s scream rings in his ears for a long time. Longer than a scream should.

It takes him a while to figure out that’s because she never actually stopped. She just closed her mouth.

But the mental link was still open.

 

“We’ll follow as soon as we blow those doors.”

The bombs are set to go off in twenty seconds.

M’gann and Manhunter leave anyways.

Dick and Wally don’t.

 

A couple seconds before the timer hits zero, Dick grips Wally’s arm.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says. Tries to smile. “I can do better next time.”

Wally doesn’t say anything. But he holds Dick’s hand until the shock wave hits them.

Getting blown up is only a little worse than getting beaten to death.

 

Dick wakes up, but this time so does everyone else.

This time, it really _was_ a dream. A worst-case scenario, engineered within their own minds to get progressively worse and worse.

Long story short, it sucked, but no permanent consequences.

Besides, you know, trauma.

Story of his life.

 

“What did you mean, when you said you could fix it?” Wally asks him a couple of days later. They’re playing Mario Kart. Wally’s winning.

Dick doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Fix what?”

Wally pauses the game. “Back in the simulation, you said you could ‘do better next time.’ What’d you mean?”

He sets his controller down on his lap. Stares at his hands. “I thought--” he stops. Clears his throat. “I thought we were going to die, KF.” He leans back, staring at the ceiling. “Even I can’t be sure what was going through my head."

After a few seconds, he hits the ‘play’ button. “Honestly, Wally, it’s no big deal. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Then he hits him with a turtle shell and the conversation devolves from there.

 

On New Year's Eve, Connor gets stabbed in the throat by a kryptonite batarang.

Robin doesn’t say anything when it happens. Just stares. Watches as Superboy crumples in slow motion, gushing red from the gash in his neck.

Kryptonian blood is a just a little bit darker than human. Who knew, right?

He watches as Batman puts the kryptonite back, as Superman straightens up, cracking his neck. They turn to look at him in unison. He swallows and clenches his jaw.

Pulls out his last explosive.

Activates it.

He doesn’t let himself break eye contact with Bruce when the beeping starts. It has a three-second priming period.

He lets his eyes snap shut when it hits two and a half.

It doesn’t really do anything to help. Exploding hurts just as much as it did last time.

Next time, he thinks, he’ll keep his eyes open.

 

The next New Year’s goes better. Robin steals the kryptonite that morning.

Uses it to get Superman down while they give him the antidote.

No one dies.

 

He doesn’t tell Bruce what went down the first time. It’s probably better that way.

 

He’s off-world when Bruce finds Jason, and he’s off-world when he loses him.

It’s got a sort of poetic irony to it. Not that Dick’s appreciative of it at the moment.

A screaming match down in the cave illustrates that, even if it doesn’t leave either of them feeling better.

Dick stays at Artemis’s that night.

Gets his own apartment in Bludhaven before the week is out. By Saturday, he’s a legally emancipated minor.

It’s enough. _(almost)_

 

“So,” Dick says, face blank. “You’re retiring.”

Wally sighs, runs a hand down his face. “I know, man. But first Tula and Garth, now Jason? If we stay, you know there’s only one way out of this.”

Dick knows. So he puts on his best “Dickie Grayson” smile, all straight white teeth and perfect dimples _(it still doesn’t reach his eyes)_. Gives Wally a hug. Tells him to give his professors hell for him.

Goes back to his empty apartment.

 

Tim Drake shows up two weeks later, with a binder full of photographs and his mouth full of “Batman needs a Robin.”

Dick pops open two ginger ales and slides one across the crummy plastic table to him. Tim catches it in his palm, but doesn’t take a sip.

Dick sits down in the only other chair, across the table from him. “You know what happened to the last Robin, right?"

Tim doesn’t break eye contact. “I got the gist,” he says. “But Mr. Wayne is going to get himself killed. He _needs_ you.”

Dick takes a swig of soda. “He got the shit beaten out of him,” he says conversationally. “Then he got blown up.”

“I know but--”

“I’m not Robin anymore,” Dick says. He sets his ginger ale down on the table. Hard. “Got a little too old for the panties, you know?”

Tim leans back in the chair, his jaw set. He still hasn’t touched the soda in front of him. “So I’ll be Robin.”

“Tim. Listen to me. Getting blown up? It’s the worst experience you’ll ever have. And I mean _ever_.”

_(flesh and muscle blowing off his arm like so many curls of burning toilet paper)_

Dick stares down at the table. Makes a decision. “I’ve died three times in my life. Two of those times were because I was Robin.” Meets Tim’s eyes. “It’s not Bruce’s fault. God knows it’s not, but… there’s a hundred percent mortality rate with Robins. You take that job, you’re gonna be part of that statistic.”

Tim swallows and looks away. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, that’s… um, that’s a lot. But it doesn’t change the facts.”

Dick leans forward. “The facts are that if you put on the cape, you _will_ die. I’m not kidding, kid.”

“The facts are,” Tim says, “that before Batman the average life expectancy in Crime Alley was thirty-seven years old. Right now it’s at sixty-four. If Mr. Wayne dies, a lot more people will too, and I’m just one person.” He gets up, his lips pressed together in a hard line. “Thanks for the soda.”

The door shuts behind him with a clatter of window shutters.

“Ask Bruce about what I said before!” Dick calls after him. “He’ll know what you’re talking about.”

Tim’s ginger ale is still full.

 

There’s another Robin on the streets by the end of the month. It’s Jason’s old costume. A few modifications here and there -- a little more kevlar in the tunic, thicker steel in the toes of his boots.

Nothing anyone will ever notice from the streets.

It’s like nothing’s changed.

 

There’s another invasion.

This time, there’s no Martian Manhunter on the other end to pull them out.

There’s just the Reach and them _(just the fall and the ground and the crunch of his own neck breaking)._

 

They end up faking Artemis’s death.

He can’t be sure anymore if M’gann’s scream is just a half-forgotten memory or the real thing.

He’s not sure if she knows either.

 

Tim zetas to Bludhaven. Meets him in his apartment.

Doesn’t meet his eyes.

Dick decides to ignore that last part. Pulls a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Dick.”

“In my apartment.”

“Dick.”

“On a _school_ night, no less.”

_“Dick.”_

Dick turns to face him. Stands up straight. Raises an eyebrow. “I sense you’re a little distressed.”

Tim’s mouth is back in that hard little line again. “Just a bit, yeah.”

“Care to tell me why?”

He flops down on one of Dick’s chairs. It’s the blue one he found at a thrift store two months ago.

Dick takes a sip of water and waits.

Tim glares at the floor. “When I first came here, you told me that you’d died three times.”

Dick’s back straightens imperceptibly. _(It’s a tell. We don’t encourage tells)_ “Yeah. And?” Takes another sip of water.

“And your file only says you died twice.”

Dick winces. “Oh, right. That.”

Somewhere along the line, Tim’s glare shifted from the floor to Dick’s face. “Yeah, Dick. _That._ ”

Dick sets the water down on the counter. Flops down on the sofa face first. “I don’t suppose I can convince you I counted that time in the worst case scenario simulation.”

“Probably not.”

 

Shit. Never mind the invasion. _This_ is the worst case scenario.

 

Tim leaves a little while after Dick tells him.

He gets four glorious minutes of no human interaction before his phone dings.

He doesn’t check it.

Two more minutes before Wally speeds through his front door.

“Hi, Wally,” Dick says, his face buried in the couch cushions. He gives him a half-hearted wave anyways. “How’ve you been?”

“What the fuck, Dick,” Wally says.

Dick sits up. Props himself on his elbow. “First of all, if you’re gonna quote a Vine, do it right.”

Wally folds his arms. “Tim just told me you tried to kill yourself.”

Dick flops back into the couch. “Oh,” he says again. “That.”

A second later, and Wally’s sliding in next to him. “Budge up your feet,” he says. Looks around. “Damn, your apartment sucks.”

“Thanks. Just for that, you can sit somewhere else.”

Wally sits down anyways and leans back against the cushions, hand resting on Dick’s left foot.

Dick shifts onto his side and stares at the carpet. Drags a finger up and down along it. After a while, he says, “Sorry about this. I didn’t want you to know.”

He can hear Wally pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dude. This is _exactly_ the sort of thing you _tell_ someone about.”

“KF, seriously. I’m fine. It doesn’t matter.”

Wally’s hand tightens on Dick’s foot, tensing up, but Dick plows on before he can say anything. “Explosive batarang. Pressed the button and three seconds later that was it. It didn’t even hurt.” _(yes it did)_

Wally swallows. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Dick.”

“But it didn’t _matter_ , Wally. I blew myself up and I _knew_ I’d be fine the next day. Well,” Dick frowns. His hand stops on a tiny piece of broken glass in the fuzz of the carpet. Rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. “Relatively speaking. But the time loop theory holds up.”

Wally stops. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “I’m sorry. Run that last part by me again?”

Dick sits up. “I can’t die, Wally,” he says, his throat dry. “I just can’t. Whenever I do, I just... go through the day again. Make sure everything works out.”

Wally closes his eyes. “Like Groundhog Day.”

“Yep. Exactly like Groundhog Day. Except, you know, without Bill Murray.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”  


“We’re at war, Dick.”

Dick stares at him. “Yeah. Kinda knew that already, Walls.”

Wally shakes his head. “No, you don’t -- people are gonna die, dude. Promise me you won’t blow yourself up again.”

“Wally…”

“ _Promise_ me, Dick.”

Dick’s mouth twitches. “I’ll do my best.”

“ _Dick.”_

His shoulders tense, but Wally’s staring at him, hands balled into fists _(back in the simulation, you said you could ‘do better next time’),_ so he just smirks and says, “I promise I won’t blow myself up again. There, happy?”

Something in Wally relaxes, and he puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Yeah…” He hesitates. “Dude, you know you can talk to me about this stuff if you need to, right?”

It’s awkward and forced, but they’ve been awkward and forced since Artemis went off to play ‘villain’ with Aqualad. Dick smiles anyway. His real smile, with all its sharp corners and tired eyes and scrunched-up nose. _(give ‘em hell for me, Wall-man)_ “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Wally nods brusquely, and claps him in a one-armed hug. “Just... remember that we care about you, all right?” He’s at the door a split-second later, giving Dick a two-fingered salute. “And take a goddamn nap, you overgrown twelve-year-old. God, it’s like I’m the only responsible person I know.”

 

That’s the last time Dick sees Wally before the end.

 

The first time Dick goes through June 20th, Black Beetle finds their base. The sound his neck makes when it snaps is disturbingly reminiscent of celery.

At least it’s quick.

 

_(They switch bases the morning of._

_“What’s with the change in scenery, ‘Wing? Got the house-hunting bug?”)_

 

The sixteenth time, the chrysalis goes critical.

According to the calculations, the Earth should’ve had half an hour.

Dick wouldn’t know. He only makes it twenty-four minutes before the ground beneath him crumbles apart.

 

_(“We’ve done this before, haven’t we.”_

_Nightwing nods. There’s not much else he can do._

_“Shit,” Wally says._

_“I just want you to know that your eloquence astounds me.”_

_It’s a poor attempt at humor and they both know it.)_

 

The twentieth time, he slips on a rock.

It’s not his finest moment.

 

_(Artemis takes it more in stride that Wally did. Shoulders her bow and keeps moving. “Well, at least we’ll get another shot next time.”_

_“There’s been a lot of resets, ‘Mis.”_

_She only pauses for a moment. “Might as well go out in style then, huh?”_

_The explosives were a tad extreme, but they got the job done._

_They also got a rather large shard of metal lodged directly through his chest, but one couldn’t really be picky at times like these.)_

 

The twenty-fifth time, everything goes right.

Well. Almost everything.

_(a dandelion in a hurricane)_

 

Kaldur’s eyes are locked on his own. Nightwing stares back. He’s glad he’s in costume. It’s easier to do this through a mask than without one. “I need a break, Kaldur. You, me, Wally -- we founded this team. Without him--”

Kaldur puts a hand on his shoulder. “I understand.”

 

His apartment in Bludhaven is empty when he shuts the door. A glance at the clock. 11:58.

_(two minutes)_

His apartment is empty. Luckily, his first-aid kit isn’t.

_(These are for emergencies only, you understand?)_

He has two minutes.

_(I thought we were going to die, KF. Even I can’t be sure what was going through my head)_

Still enough time to make this right.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://gnomewithalaptop.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
